The Night My Father Died

I wasn't home that stormy night the fragrance of pink Frangipani had forever captured me, that bittersweet magician of soft velvet, alight against the moon of southern seas, my night was balmy though, a thousand patient stars, so far from distant cousins of the ancient home. There were commitments here, you see all flights were often booked, way in advance. And come to think of it, what would it do it was God's work to call him home at last I'd be, to put it bluntly, in the way. A tiny yet so icy hand had touched my face, communication from the edge, but why choose me? The night then blossomed through soft music, and a trance descended on our little island from above. In foam-flecked rhythm swayed small waves, in lusty dance and I had grown some tender roots, a sign of love. Across the miles he fought old lungs that would not breathe a sign of certainty the candle had been burned, those plastic lenses stared at all who had been trapped oh what an irony to see the clever hands of Doctor Cataract as he was widely known. And he had commandeered my father's favourite chair, though there was little in the way that Dad could do. Or was there? All could see unhappiness, and that he turned but it was only the last gesture as he raised a yellowed and too bony, heavy hand, as if to say 'it is embarrassing to me for you to stay'. So many worlds away, in Polynesian blues beneath those lovely Frangipani blossom trees, I could not know who had been sad and who had cried. Perhaps the Gods will always get their precious dues. I was not there that night when my old father died.